


try, tried, trying

by dictionarysays



Category: SMAP
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dictionarysays/pseuds/dictionarysays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shingo is acutely aware of the moment Nakai cups his cheek, Goro kisses his left wrist and Kimura mumbles we love you in his hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	try, tried, trying

 

It’s not the alarm that wakes him up, despite his reluctance in having one at all recently—Goro wouldn’t have any of that though and came over to personally set it himself (‘You need something to keep you on track when... I’m not around’; Shingo knew what the pause meant but he wasn’t ready for that). It wasn’t the light filtering in through his haphazardly shut blinds either that Kimura had gone out of his way to fix when Shingo let it slip last week he had broken the thing (Shingo expected a stern talking to but all he got was a thump on the back and a heartbreakingly soft smile at the door that said everything would be okay, just not right now).   
  
It was the deep ache in his chest when he sprung up from the bed (this time worse than the last); tee-shirt plastered to his skin and his hair in  _sweaty-sticky_  clumps. He doesn’t need to look to know all the bed sheets are off and twisted like something’s gone wrong, something had— _has_ gone wrong so Shingo just sighs, face in his hands.   
  
His cheeks are rough and his upper lip itches, the five o’clock shadow he usually never has, has been a 24/7 thing since the beginning of last week. No one’s questioned it (but Shingo knows he would’ve shaken his head, laughed more gently than usual and handed Shingo his razor, even offering to shave it for him if he really wanted).   
  
Shingo wants to laugh at the thought, work a smile, but the back of his eyes hurt and he swore to himself he’d stop crying first thing in the morning (Nakai made him do it after rehearsal while the other two stood outside the door—there if he needed them), so he pinches the fleshy part behind his knee.   
  
Shingo tries to get out of bed, he really does.   
  
But he can’t find the energy to swing his legs over the edge, he doesn’t know what’s waiting for him—well, he knows, but he doesn’t like what’s out there (they try to hide it from him).   
  
His mornings are nothing like they used to be and he hates that, he hates it so much that his naked toes are flexed in anger and starting to cramp. Shingo doesn’t want to get up, go to the bathroom and have breakfast like everything’s the same, because it’s not and the right side of the bed says it all. He hasn’t had the heart to sleep on it since; it has everything to do with the fact he can still feel the hum of life, love and fun that was there and nothing ( _still everything_ ) to do with the fact he misses him.   
  
He mumbles incoherently, under his breath, under all of this; hoping to find solace in the way he massages the top of his eyelids, letting his fingers linger in the dip between his brow and eyeballs a little bit. He knows it has to be something around five in the morning because his alarm hasn’t gone off yet and somewhere in the middle of the night he got so frustrated he threw the stupid thing (it could be broken, but he doesn’t have the mind to care about that).   
  
“One, two, three, four, five, six,” Shingo has started a thing where he starts to count when his stomach begins churning, the sadness making his chest feel so tight and the emotions— _every_ thing,  _all_ of the little and big things—threaten to bubble past his lips (it’s a relatively new habit). He’s only at fifty when his fingers fist (angrily, needlessly) into the mattress, he’s gritting his teeth and wishing all of it would go away, that he could go away but he knows that won’t work.   
  
Instead, he lets the tears fall (they were hanging there, just waiting, trickling off the ends of his eyelashes); lets them stream out until his face is soaked and all he can taste is mucous, salt and fear—he won’t tell Nakai he cried, he doesn’t think he has to, he’s been up for a few minutes—he didn’t break their swear.   
  
He hides his face in his arms anyway, even though there’s no one to see.   
  
  
  
“You look like shit.” Kimura’s point blank and Shingo shrugs; he doesn’t miss Goro-chan’s concerned glance when he walks in and Nakai’s been listening the whole time.   
  
Without a word, Nakai pulls up a chair, it’s loud ( _ghhhhhh_ ) on the floor—but Shingo knows it’s for him and he settles down beside him. Nakai reaches up and tousles Shingo’s dirty blonde hair; Shingo hasn’t taken the time to keep it blonde (Nakai doesn’t mention the unkempt grease they both know is there), and Shingo wishes he could overlook the lump in his throat.   
  
A couple minutes pass like this, Shingo vehemently trying to ignore the elephant in the room (Nakai can’t help but let him, Goro’s wringing his hands and Kimura’s in the bathroom kind of really wishing they didn’t have to do this). Eventually Kimura returns and he clears his throat when he does; Goro’s immediately at attention and Nakai bumps his shoulder against Shingo’s in a way that tells him they’re all here.   
  
Kimura’s voice is rough and that catches Shingo off guard when he says, “I’m fed up with keeping everything in and acting like Tsuyoshi isn’t dead.”   
  
His arms are crossed against his chest and Shingo believes him because the muscle in his jaw is taut and the bags under his eyes are deep. Shingo looks at Nakai—his cheeks are sunken in, his face more gaunt than it was two weeks ago and he’s not even wearing a hat. Goro’s socks don’t match, he’s let his hair grow out and he’s reverted back to biting his nails.   
  
It finally hits him. They’re all hurting. They’ve all lost someone they love and they’re never getting him back.   
  
Shingo suddenly feels like a jerk.   
  
Here he is, barely taking anyone else’s feelings into consideration (they’ve been treating him like glass—well, as glass as Nakai’s gruff comfort, Kimura’s hands and Goro’s long stares could be) when all this time they’d been hurting too. They’ve been trying to get by,  _just like him_. But no one’s said a word, no one’s complained and maybe that’s because Tsuyopon and him were close (off camera they were even more; their hands, arms, chests and lips were inseparable) or maybe it has all to do with the fact they’d been living together for more than a year now and there was no way Shingo was going to throw out his toothbrush.   
  
It could’ve been any of these reasons or none at all, but Shingo feels the guilt wrench at his insides and he shuts his eyes, digging the heels of his palms into his lids.   
  
“I’m sorry, I’m  _so sorry_ —what am I even doing?  _You guys_... ” Shingo’s voice is fast and low, it’s hardly even his. How could he tell the men he’s known for over twenty years (the guys he’s grown up with, sang songs with, gone to New York with, ate food with, lost games with, danced bad with, _done everything with_ ) that he messed up? That he didn’t deserve a single thing they’d done for him? That he was a piece of shit?   
  
His head hurts. He thinks of vomiting but he’s stalled enough.   
  
He takes a breath, his chest feels hollow—his stomach turns in on itself and becomes a little ball. “You guys are the best. You’ve always been... Tsuyopon, too... ” How long has it been since he’s said his name out loud? Long enough. The air is thick with something that isn’t tension but you could still cut it with a butter knife. “I can’t tell you how  _grateful_ I am, how grateful I've  _been_... but you wouldn’t know that, would you? I've been a shitty person but an even shittier friend—I can’t stand it.  _This—all of it_. I’m  _dy_ ing.”   
  
Shingo finally looks up, he knows his eyes are bright with unshed tears, but fuck it. So are Goro’s. Kimura’s look is deep and Shingo can’t stand the crestfallen look on Nakai’s face.   
  
Shingo swallows, murmuring quietly, his voice is hoarse, “But I forgot. You guys are too. And, I mean—I’m  _sorry_. I’m  _sorry_ for forgetting, I’m sorry for never asking ‘how are you?’” He brushes at his eyes roughly with the side of his arm, sniffling, not nearly rubbing enough to stop all the tears that are dropping from his eyes like the words from his mouth. “I’m sorry for like, sucking at this, for not knowing what the hell I’m supposed to do now. I mean, if this were Katsuken or something, I wouldn’t have a problem—but...”  
  
Shingo doesn’t know how it happens but lean arms somehow make their way around his waist (pulling him up and out of his seat), hands tight and big on the small of his back; there’s a warm breath against his ear, a head nuzzling his hair as its gentle voice mumbles something over and over again (‘It s’okay, it s’okay, it s’okay) but he can’t make out any of the words; someone’s grabbed a hold of both his hands and is kissing his upturned palms so gently, so tenderly—that all he can think of is Tsuyopon.   
  
Tsuyopon’s crinkly smile, Tsuyopon’s breathy laugh, Tsuyopon’s dainty hand on his brow that one time he was sick—Shingo cries. He cries because he’s gone, he cries because the arms around his waist are shaking, he cries because the really familiar voice against his ear breaks, he cries because the kisses on his palms have been replaced with tears.   
  
He cries because they’re crying too.   
  
  
  
It was an unspoken agreement that they would wear their own clothes (Kimura tucked himself into a loose flannel shirt and his most comfortable jeans; Nakai was wrapped in a thin scarf, plain pants and a button-up; Goro-chan on the other hand dressed himself in a dark v-neck, and black tight jeans; Shingo tried just enough to pull on a pair of worn-out cut offs and one of Tsuyopon’s tees—it said DON’T WORRY YOU’LL BE HAPPY).   
  
Management wrangled the Tokyo Dome space at the last minute (because how can you plan for something like this?) and they arrived hours before the memorial was set to start—none of them had the heart to spare a glance through the van’s tinted windows (the hundreds,  _thousands_ of fans already crowding the entrance; banners, candles, signs, flowers and tears alike)—Shingo thought if he did, he just might lose it; Goro’s hand in his own understood.   
  
They rounded themselves up into one dressing room, not minding at all that it was really made for two—the less space between them, the better.   
  
The memorial hadn’t been their plan. The higher-ups shoved a date into their faces and before Shingo could cross the room and punch a bespectacled man out, Nakai had grabbed his wrist, murmured to the man, “I’ll say something then, but nothing else— _our_ grief isn’t something of yours to sell.” And everything after that was a blur until the actual day.  
  
(But Shingo distinctly remembers Kimura cornering Nakai during a makeshift rehearsal and whispering things that made the older man almost cry—if it weren’t for the way Nakai had pulled the brim of his beanie over his eyes and Kimura had slipped a hand up the back of their leader’s neck, Shingo wouldn’t have had a clue. It was later in the corridor when Goro had told him that Takuya would be speaking at the memorial instead, that Shingo knew for sure)   
  
  
  
There’s a crackling in the air when Kimura speaks.   
  
“To everyone here, thank you for coming tonight,” Kimura stops; Shingo stares out into the crowd and tries to make out the shapes through the sadness weighing him down.  
  
“I can’t even begin to explain  _what_ we have lost, I started off believing that we’ve got it the worst, but—I’m not quite right, am I? Everyone here is going through the loss, one way or another—even between the four of us, the wound isn’t the same.” Goro catches Kimura’s eyes first when he looks back; Nakai manages a weak smile.   
  
“Tsuyoshi would’ve appreciated all of you being here, we’re sure of it.” The air somehow whooshes out of Shingo’s chest and all the love and pride he’s had for the older man increases tenfold because his voice doesn’t break and Shingo can’t even think Tsuyopon’s name without reaching for a wall. “Of course, we miss him, but... we’re happy for these twenty some odd years we’ve had with him, too, even if we’d been aiming for forever— _without a doubt_ , they were the best years of our lives,” Goro makes a rushed grab for Nakai’s hand and it becomes Nakai turning into the younger man's side, shoving his contorted face into his curls.   
  
“We hope to remember all these years with all of you tonight, but even more than that—to never forget them,” Kimura looks down at his feet briefly, “This one goes out to Tsuyoshi-kun, the best boke, friend,  _man_... SMAP could have ever asked for.” Shingo knows Kimura is saying it from a deep-soft place in his heart, “Tonight, we know you’re right here on stage with us. Right now, we are SMAP.” Kimura bows, “Thank you.”   
  
  
  
He knows it has to happen eventually, but he’s still surprised when he finds them at his door at three in the morning. Shingo’s chest is tight when Nakai runs into it and Goro and Kimura stay back, heads low.   
  
Nakai sobs like a little boy and Shingo does nothing to stop the snot that dribbles out of his nose; his big arms wrapped around the older man long before he even realizes it but not before Goro buries his face into the back of Shingo’s neck and Kimura’s shutting the door behind him.   
  
Shingo’s suddenly reminded of late nights spent on the couch with Tsuyopon, beers between their knees; they’d always end up on one end of the couch, wrestling, some way or another—sometimes if Tsuyoshi was smiling too much, Shingo would let himself get pinned before slamming the smaller man to the ground and proving alcohol had nothing on him.   
  
That only makes him cry more, sobs find the power to come out of him in painful bursts that wrack his entire frame. Nakai squeezes him tight, despite the unrestrained flow of raw regret that streams down his leader’s face, Nakai’s so himself, it’s surreal—but Goro blows his mind. He pulls back from his place behind Shingo and hugs Kimura instead.  
  
“I’m so proud.” Shingo doesn’t know how he hears Goro’s soft voice, but he hears Kimura’s sniffles, sees him shift.  
  
“ _I don’t know how I did it_ ,” It’s mostly muffled but Goro pulls him close and when he smoothes Kimura’s hair out, everything in Shingo’s gut twists so he shuts his eyes and swears he won’t fall (if he does, who’ll hold Nakai up?).   
  
Nearly an hour later where they’re sprawled on the floor, somewhere between the bathroom and his shoes, Shingo is acutely aware of the moment Nakai cups his cheek, Goro kisses his left wrist and Kimura mumbles we love you in his hair.   
  
They weren’t okay, they probably never would be. But they’d always keep trying.

 


End file.
